


The Dip

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Stark Ranch [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BUT FIRST WE SLOW BURN, Cowboy Porn That Developed Feelings Goddamnit, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic Discipline, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, HORSES!, Lots of Sex in Future Chapters, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Underage Consumption of Whiskey, alternate universe - cowboys, grief is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: WATCH THEM TAGS FOLKS.Polyamorous Cowboy Smut incoming!But first, all the feelings:“I c-can’t-” stutters Peter through chattering teeth.  “W-why would you d-do this?  To me?  T-to anyone?”“It works,” asserts Bucky again, fumbling in the bag and pulling out two cups, setting them beside him on the ground.  He fumbles again and comes out with the thermos, unscrewing the cap and pouring out a measure in each mug.  It steams.  Peter snatches the nearest one, uninvited, and hunches his body around it.  It smells pungent and clean, somehow.“Stress blend, Ororo makes it, good for settling your insides, sorry if you don’t like licorice,” says Bucky.  “Drink it up.”It’s definitely a mouthful of warmth and- and flavor.  Strong flavor.  “Strong,” gasps Peter.“Yeah, that’d be the whisky,” comments Bucky.Peter bobbles his mug, miraculously not spilling any of it.  “Whisky?” he squeaks.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Stark Ranch [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893331
Comments: 50
Kudos: 80





	The Dip

**Author's Note:**

> First off, let's hear it for the people who gave me the prompt, who WILL BE GIFTED FUTURE FICS WHEN THERE IS FLAME:  
> khory, who has the spiciest gifs  
> Annalyn, who encourages the best  
> personaljunkdrawer, who is as filthy as she is talented, which is a staggering amount, really
> 
> For iamwithtony, or Peter Is A Twink Fight Me on Tumblr, for the moodboard which was just *chef kiss* perfect, and came at just the right time to knock me right off my smut and into an ocean of feelings.
> 
> For my cheerreaders, Livvibee and personaljunkdrawer, for telling me it's not shit, I should not delete it
> 
> Beta'd by the Supreme Team of jf4m and mindwiped.
> 
> All remaining errors are mine.

“Shh, I got him. Roll over, Harley, back to sleep, hon,” murmurs a sleep-gruff voice in Peter’s ear. It shocks Peter fully awake, suddenly aware that he’s been crying, again. “And you settle, too,” says the deep, quiet voice, that must go with the heavy arm wrapped around Peter’s heaving chest. “Nothing wrong with bad dreams. Let ‘em shake off, wake up a bit, and then we’ll go down the ladder.”

Peter nods, and tries to pry his painfully stiff and salty eyelids open. His breath catches as he realizes it’s the _porn_ cowboy holding him, the man’s sharply chiseled jaw defined by moonlight as he cranes his neck to peer at something through the window. How someone can look that good in the middle of the night is completely unfair.

Peter breathes in the cool night air and rubs his hot cheek against the faintly scratchy feel of _home_ on his pillow and tries not to snuffle back all the snot too loudly. Eventually the cowbo- _Bucky-_ whispers gruffly, “You think you can manage the ladder?”

“Yeah,” breathes Peter.

“Y’okay?” slurs Harley, beside them.

“Shh, Harley, back to sleep,” Bucky orders gruffly, crouching and pulling Peter’s covers back, helping Peter move to the ladder with a steadying hand.

“K,” mumbles Harley.

Peter follows Bucky down the ladder, and then goes to the stairs when Bucky nods. He slips silently past the open door and the shut door on the second floor, and then pauses on the cool tile floor of the sitting room.

“Kitchen,” says Bucky shortly, and Peter scrambles head of him, away from him, face flushing in embarrassment.

“How’s your stomach?” asks Bucky, still quiet, at this strange hour of night. “Usually wake up from a bad one all gut-twisted, myself.”

“Uh,” stammers Peter, “it’s uh, um-“

“Yeah, s’okay to say y’don’t _feel right_ , you know that, right, kid?” Bucky informs him, putting a kettle on the stove and lighting the burner.

“I don’t feel right,” says Peter hollowly, and then his throat tightens again and he sits on the nearby stool, hard. He pillows his head on his arms as Bucky digs in cabinets. His head hurts; his throat and eyes burn. He’s so damn tired. And the porn cowboy heard him, from, from two floors below or something, and he’s not here for _therapy_ , but maybe he should- maybe he should ask for some.

Eventually, faster than Peter expects, the kettle begins a low whistle. He looks up to catch Bucky pouring it into a huge thermos and sealing it closed, all with one hand. There’s a big leather bag on the counter, and Bucky tosses the thermos inside it. Peter realizes with a start that Bucky doesn’t have his prosthetic on, and that’s why his movements have all looked truncated and jerky.

“Well, c’mon,” says Bucky gruffly, waving for Peter to follow him to the mud room.

Peter’s heart skips a beat before he scrambles to follow.

In the mud room, Bucky points to a pair of boots and says, “Stuff your feet in those. Red and blue stitching is all yours, we keep things color coded around here to avoid confusion.”

Peter slides his feet into the boots, his heel catching so that he has to really shove his foot down to get it on.

Bucky waits for him, holding open the door. Peter slides in front of him, shoulder brushing the door jam opposite, trying to give the man a wide berth.

“This way,” directs Bucky, and Peter can just make out a path worn through the tall grass. The moon above is round and full, and the night is as alive with sound as midnight in the city, with rushing traffic. Peter marvels at all the noise, of insects chirping and water burbling somewhere, muted bleats of sheep from far off and random barks occasionally. The main house, so big it’s visible down the long rolling hills, even has soft lights on, he notices, and two of the barns do, too.

Peter can hear the sound of the trickling water get louder and louder, until Bucky stops and says, “Swimming hole. It’s gonna be cold, but I promise it’ll help you shake the dreams, you’ll sleep the rest of the night. You up for trying?”

Peter thinks about how nice it would feel to wake up from sleep, actual _sleep_. “Y-yeah,” he stutters.

“Dam’s to the right,” says Bucky. “You can hear the water spilling over. Ain’t higher than ten feet, so don’t go diving in, but I think you won’t want to wade slowly.”

The air is so chilly that Peter has goosebumps. Yeah, no, he’s not going to want to wade slowly. He doesn’t really want to go in at all, but he’ll do about anything to get rid of the ache in his chest. He’s so tired, he just- he’ll do anything for some sleep.

“Strip down, so you can put the clothes back on,” Bucky tells him.

Peter hesitates. 

“Nothing I don’t have myself,” Bucky tells him, and then huffs a laugh, “and probably a bigger, better set, come to think ‘bout it. Here, you’re shy, I’ll turn my back. Just walk right in, it’s all rocky bottomed right here. If you, I don’t know, step on something sharp, I’ll wade in and help, but otherwise, I’ll stay right up here, leave you to it.”

Peter swallows and nods, stripping off first the t-shirt and then the pajama bottoms, not bothering to fold them. He can’t believe he’s about to actually do this.

That water looks cold. The _air_ is cold. 

This is crazy.

He peeks at Bucky, who really did turn his back entirely from Peter.

Well. 

Either he does the crazy thing or he has to explain why he stripped down and then _didn’t_ do the crazy thing.

Peter takes a deep breath, and shuffles forward.

“Five steps out, there’s a dip,” warns Bucky. “Just, be prepared.”

Peter nods, and then remembers Bucky can’t _see_ him and says, “Yeah, okay.”

And then he strides forward as fast as he can, letting his momentum carry him through the shock. It’s exactly as cold as he thought it would be, and he has to clench his teeth so he doesn’t shout.

This was a monumentally stupid idea.

He’s not prepared for the dip, pretty sure he’s not five steps out, and so he sinks like a stone, still gasping at how fucking _cold_ the water is. He surfaces, whole body convulsing, and yelps, “Fuck, _fuck_ , this is _crazy!”_

From the bank, Bucky chuckles, “What’s crazier is you don’t even know me, and you did it anyway, kid. Ain’t you from the big city?”

Peter feels his heart twist even as his limbs report that they, in fact, _cannot handle this level of cold, so **get out**_. “‘S a joke?” he chokes through the chattering teeth.

“Nope,” says Bucky. “Works, I promise, Peter. You can check in with Steve and Harley, hell, Darcy or Nat or Clint, any of them. Old trick of Logan’s. Don’t know anyone it hasn’t worked on.”

“Fuck, how long- how long-” gasps Peter, because the cold is starting to be more than just a shock, it’s sinking into his bones with sharp claws, ripping through muscle and skin and sinew to get inside him.

“”Y’can come out whenever,” says Bucky pleasantly. “Whole point is to shock the system, and from your chattering teeth, I’d say we’ve shocked it.”

“Mother _fucker_ ,” agrees Peter, swimming towards the shore again, hands and toes clumsy already with the cold. “How- how cold-”

“No idea,” says Bucky. “But the ice just broke up, so... _very_ cold. C’mon, you won’t get hypothermia from a little dip and it worked, didn’t it? Even ducked your head under, bet your eyes feel less tight.”

They do. But Peter’s not going to tell the man that. His feet find purchase and he stands up, dripping water, shivering and shaking as he tries to find his way back to his pajamas, tries to get them back on with fingers that don’t _work_.

“Here, got a blanket, wrap up and dry off first,” offers Bucky.

When Peter looks over, the man has turned back around to face Peter, although he’s still averting his eyes, holding out the small blanket with his right arm. Peter takes the blanket hurriedly and wraps it around him hastily, shivering and muttering, “ _Shit_ ,” under his breath.

“Yeah, Logan’s an asshole, but if he says it works, it _works_ ,” Bucky tells him. “Introduce you two tomorrow.”

“I c-can’t-” stutters Peter through chattering teeth. “W-why would you d-do this? To me? T-to anyone?”

“It works,” asserts Bucky again, fumbling in the bag and pulling out two cups, setting them beside him on the ground. He fumbles again and comes out with the thermos, unscrewing the cap and pouring out a measure in each mug. It steams. Peter snatches the nearest one, uninvited, and hunches his body around it. It smells pungent and clean, somehow.

“Stress blend, Ororo makes it, good for settling your insides, sorry if you don’t like licorice,” says Bucky. “Drink it up.”

It’s definitely a mouthful of warmth and- and flavor. Strong flavor. “Strong,” gasps Peter.

“Yeah, that’d be the whisky,” comments Bucky.

Peter bobbles his mug, miraculously not spilling any of it. “Whisky?” he squeaks.

“Yeah, medicinal,” agrees Bucky. “Want you to sleep until _morning_.”

“I mean, there’s drugs for that,” Peter points out with what he feels is only an appropriate amount of scandalization in his voice.

“Sure, and there’s older methods, too, traditional, time-honored, and we’re using the older ones, right now,” says Bucky, sounding a little aggravated as he takes a big mouthful of what Peter knows is scalding hot tea.

With whisky.

Peter shakes his head as Bucky makes a noise, digs in the bag, and produces a thick cookie. “Eat that, too,” he says shortly.

Peter begins to shiver half-way through the cookie. Which is actually an improvement over the every-muscle-tight clench he’d been in minutes before. 

“Yeah, about time to go in,” says Bucky, squinting at the house, although he’s still politely not looking at Peter. “Finish up.”

Peter barely tastes the last of the tea and the cookie. His stomach and throat feel warm, and his head swims, just a little, at how weird this whole- whole- how weird this has been.

“Wipe off some, I won’t watch,” snorts Bucky, rising up fluidly and turning his back on Peter, walking towards the creek. “ _Don’t_ walk around without the boots. It’s probably okay here, where we cut back the grasses, but there’s all kinds of things you could step on.”

“You told me to walk into a _river_ ,” Peter points out, rubbing himself down with the rough cotton blanket.

“Barely more than a crick, and I told you, we made that swimming hole, maintain it, too. Fat chance you’d get hurt in it,” Bucky informs him, amused, walking over to the creek bank and scooping up Peter’s pajamas. “‘nless you’re a trouble magnet, which, you might be. Wouldn’t be the first one we’ve had.”

Peter hold the blanket around his waist and shivers as Bucky approaches, his head spinning with- with- 

“Here, kid, won’t watch,” says Bucky lowly, dropping the pajamas into Peter’s hand and quirking a grin at him before turning to pack up the mugs and the thermos. “You can yell at me in the morning if the trick doesn’t work, all right?”

Peter’s fingers are very clumsy as they fumble with the fabric- clumsy with cold and with exhaustion, both. But his head feels- clear. _Delightfully_ clear, in fact. He yawns. 

“Yeah, let’s get you upstairs, pour you back into bed to warm up some, huh?” says Bucky quietly. Peter nods. It sounds good. He shoves his feet back into the boots, wincing a little at how stiff they feel, and picks up the blanket, following Bucky when he wordlessly begins the walk back to the house. 

“You gotta piss, go get ‘er done,” mutters Bucky, heeling off his boots in the mudroom. Peter nods and trips his way over to the wall, to kick and pry the boots off of his feet, too. He shoves them against the wall and trails a hand against it to the shower room, and then flips the lights to get to the other door, the door to the bathroom. He flicks the lights off as he passes into the short hallway and stumbles into the right-side bathroom.

He’s so cold, and tired, and his head is spinning with- with- it’s spinning, that’s all.

He stumbles on the stairs and Bucky puts his hand up, rests it on Peter’s lower back and murmurs, “Steady, kid.”

Peter nods and pretends that the hand isn’t a brand of hot heat at the base of his spine. The ladder is in front of him before he can quite believe it, and he mutters, “Thanks,” even though he’s not sure he’s grateful for the midnight experience.

“Yeah, thank me in the morning,” snorts Bucky. “Go on, climb up.”

Peter begins to climb and then hears Bucky climbing after him. Peter knee-walks his way to the right mattress and strips back the blankets.

“All right, climb in,” murmurs Bucky lowly. 

“I don’t- I don’t need-” hisses Peter.

“Yeah, what you don’t need and what you do need could fill that swimming hole,” Bucky grunts. “I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do, so lay down.”

That makes _no sense_ , but Peter half-collapses on the bed, his cheek rubbing against his pillow and his eyes already fluttering shut. Bucky covers him with the sheet and the light blanket and then his quilt, and then presses a hand to Peter’s back and says, “Sleep.”

Well.

Okay.

~~~

When he wakes up in the morning, the curtains in the loft are closed tightly and the lighting is dim. He can’t hear the sounds of the ranch, so the window must be closed, too.

He feels- disoriented. Shaky. Groggy. 

And also like he needs to pee a new crick on this property, starting five minutes ago.

Peter scrambles for the ladder and almost falls in his eagerness to go take care of that.

He races down the stairs and skids across the tiles.

“There a fire?” laughs Harley from a kitchen stool.

“Gotta pee,” mutters Peter, racing past.

The left bathroom has an open door, and the relief is so strong it makes Peter a little dizzy.

Harley is snickering when Peter walks much more sedately back to him. “Hey, how does the rock pee?” he asks Peter with a sly smile.

“What? I don’t know?” responds Peter, confused.

“He Dwaynes his Johnson,” chortles Harley, and then he laughs, “Dwayne Johnson? The Rock? You do know who the Rock is, right?”

“Oh, God,” groans Peter. And then he pauses, because, well, he hasn’t seen a single screen or- or television, anywhere around this place. How does _Harley_ know who the Rock is?

“Bucky’ll be back in about an hour, Half-pint,” Steve says. “You gonna be ready to show him some progress?”

“Aww,” groans Harley, putting his hands in his hair. “I hate geometry, Steve.”

“Just show your work, that’s all they’re asking, Harley,” Steve says firmly. “Peter, it’s almost 10, do you want breakfast or lunch?”

“Uh,” stammers Peter. “Um, break- breakfast?” _It’s almost 10 AM?_

“You got a headache?” asks Steve.

Peter checks in. He’s had a headache for months, he thinks, but, well. “No, not, not really,” he tells Steve honestly, settling gingerly on a stool beside Harley and peering at the papers scattered in front of him. Geometry. _Huh._

“Hm,” hums Steve, digging around in cupboards. “We had waffles this morning, saved a couple for you.”

“Thanks,” Peter tells him.

Every problem has an answer. Peter does fast mental math on the first two and realizes, Harley’s right. Harley’s totally right, that’s the _answer_.

 _Just show your work, that’s all they’re asking, Half-pint_. Peter smiles a little, because he’d thought, when they’d been razzing Harley the night before, he’d thought it was because Harley wasn’t good at school.

“Hey, can I have another waffle, too?” asks Harley hopefully.

“Half-pint,” says Steve in a suddenly aggressive growl.

“No, no, all right, I’ll- I’ll pick up the damned pencil,” backpedals Harley. “Jeez.”

“Language,” chides Steve.

“Oh, can’t be swearing if I’m _describing_ , Stevie, and this pencil? Straight outta hell itself, swear to God,” mutters Harley.

“Harley,” says Steve shortly.

“All _right_ , all _right_ ,” sighs Harley, shaking his head and making a mark on the paper. He’s not hunching over his work, so Peter watches with interest and then says, “Oh, no, if you start there, the teacher’s gonna send it back.”

“What?” asks Harley scornfully.

“Well, look, you skipped ahead, and they hate that. When they say show your work, they mean, like, all of it,” Peter says, rolling his eyes.

“Buncha idiots, making more work for everybody,” grumbles Harley, shifting. “So, uh, where _should_ I start?”

“When you looked at it, what was the first part you did? I think I solve this differently than you do,” says Peter, leaning in.

“Oh, I, uh- here- this, the x?” says Harley, pointing to the image.

“Sure, yeah,” says Peter enthusiastically. “Ned does it like that, swears it’s faster, but hear me out, because if you solve for y, here-” he taps the image. “And then you can, you know, split this into, like, two half-circles, right?”

“Huh,” says Harley. “Yeah, that’d work, too.”

“It’s just tidier, like if it was a- a- a sheet of metal, right? You could sit at the drafting table and plug in the numbers the way _you’re_ doing it, or you could just kinda math a lot of it in your head, break it down,” explains Peter. “Teacher’s don’t care which way you do it, either, as long as you explain everything. So, your way, you have to do the little equations, right? And show each- like, how you got to why, all the steps. And my way, you can just kinda, um, jump in? I hated writing all the little steps,” he sighs, shaking his head.

“Sheet of metal, huh,” Harley muses slowly. His pencil flashes across the paper as Steve sets a plate of waffles in front of Peter and stands, leaning back, and looking down at Peter.

Peter hunches and picks up the fork, cutting off his first piece, which is dripping with what he suspects is honey and butter. His suspicion is confirmed when he bites into it, and the combination is much more delicious than he’d expected.

Steve stands there, looking between Peter and Harley, until Harley puts the pencil down and says, “Hey, where- if I started on, say, this part, here, first, would that-”

Peter nods and swallows quickly to say, “Yeah, right? Sheet of metal, that’s how you’d math it, if you didn’t want to go back to the drafting table. And then, see how if you- you don’t have to show all the shitty little equations.”

“Language,” mutters Harley, frowning at the paper. “So first, uh-” he traces one part of the shape, “and then, then this, that’s how I’d make that cut,” he muses.

“Sure,” says Peter. When he glances up at Steve, there’s a faint smile on the man’s face.

“ _You_ can stay until December,” Steve tells him firmly. “Get him through his last semester.”

“You graduate in December?” asks Peter, trying to figure out how old the other boy is, in relation to him.

“I shoulda graduated last December,” sighs Harley, “but-”

“Harley likes to kick up a fuss,” teases Steve. “Has to go do leg-yields for five hours just to jump one fence.”

“Ain’t my fault the teachers don’t follow the laws of nature,” retorts Harley. “Streams always pick the easiest bed, lighting goes the shortest path, cows don’t walk ten miles if there’s plenty of grass right where they are.”

Peter barks a laugh and then snickers into his next bite of waffle. “What- what are leg-yields?” he asks curiously.

“It’s a horse thing,” says Harley bitterly. “Basic movement. When a horse is balking, you take them back to basics, get their head straight. I spend hours doing basics with Tantrum every day, just, just getting his head straight.”

“And Harley needed an alphabet refresher every time he had to write a three-paragraph essay,” snorts Steve. Harley scowls and hunches his shoulders a little, but the page is quickly filling up with the multi-step equations Peter used to get through his geometry classes, years ago. He can see Harley do one in his original method, which is just smart, show the teacher you can do both ways, before switching back to Peter’s method for the next one. Peter nods and realizes he’s finished both waffles and downed half of the glass of milk Steve had poured for him.

“7, not 8,” he tells Harley, looking over Harley’s shoulder. “You round up on 5, not down.”

“Ah, fuck, I always forget that,” complains Harley.

Steve smacks Harley across the head, saying, “Language,” firmly. Harley smirks while also hunching further and muttering, “Sorry.”

“Heard Buck took you for the cool-your-jets cure last night,” Steve says to Peter, with a small smile. “You survived it, so-”

“It’s April,” protests Harley, dropping his pencil and turning to Peter. “The ice _just_ broke up!”

“It was so cold,” declares Peter, because they’re both looking at him with expressions of sympathy. “It was so very, very _cold_.”

“Did your pecker freeze off? Or what, because I been thrown in that crick in July and come out with chattering teeth,” breathes Harley, clearly impressed.

“No, it’s still attached,” says Peter. “It did try to crawl back inside for warmth, though,” he chuckles. “It was _cold_.”

“But then you slept until 10 AM?” confirms Steve.

“Yeah, I- I guess I did,” says Peter, thinking about that fact. His heart sinks a little, because- because does this mean he’s forgetting Ben, just a little? Is that- is that why John wanted him out here, in this new place? To forget?

Peter doesn’t want to forget Ben.

“That’s good, Peter,” says Steve slowly, ducking his head to force eye contact with Peter.

“Y-yeah,” agrees Peter after a heartbeat. “Yeah, yes. Of course it’s good,” he tells Steve, who smiles back at him.

“C’mon, let’s leave Harley to get his work done, you can come journal while I get some drawing in,” Steve tells Peter, setting Peter’s plate in the sink.

“Oh, _goodie_ ,” sneers Harley. “Left _unsupervised_.”

“Bucky’ll be here in less than an hour,” Steve says in a light tone. “You want to risk wrath, you go right ahead, I won’t stop you.”

Harley hunches and snorts, but picks up the pencil again, Peter notes as he walks to the staircase and starts climbing.

Steve settles by the draft table again, and Peter settles in the beanbag chair.

Time passes. Peter’s throat is tight, as he writes more and more of what he’s feeling, filling first one page, with fast angry words, and then a second, and then a third. The red ink of the pen feels _right_ for this, right for these words, words about how _unfair_ everything is, how Peter should be _home_. Doing Harley’s homework had made him remember all of the projects he’d left in his bin in the robot lab- would Ned grab them for him? Should he try to ask May, on Sunday?

Oh. Wait.

“What day is it?” he asks Steve, wincing.

“Humm? Oh, uh, Thursday,” says Steve absently. “I think. Maybe Wednesday. Didn’t see Jesse with the garbage truck this morning.”

So he has time, then.

He writes, carefully, in all caps in the back of the book, TO DO: and then follows it with TELL MAY ABOUT ROBOTS. There are footsteps outside the door and then Bucky strides in, nodding at Peter before sliding in far too close to Steve’s back, and kissing the back of the man’s neck, one arm slipping around Steve’s waist.

And Steve _lets_ him, lifting an arm back to cup the back of Bucky’s neck and sigh contentedly. “He get more done?” Steve asks.

“Had the whole first page done,” Bucky informs him, sounding fairly pleased.

Steve sighs, “Yeah, well, he had that done before we came up here, and we’ve been up here for-” he glances at his wrist, pulling it down from Bucky’s neck, “-half hour, at least.”

“Well, hell, do I go celebrate getting one page done, or go spank him for slacking the minute you left?” chuckles Bucky. Peter snorts mentally, because a verbal spanking is exactly what Harley needs, he can’t believe Harley is refusing to show his work on math problems and is risking failing a class over it. Peter went to school with literal geniuses, and, sure, it sucks to have to spell it out when your brain went so fast it’s like moving through molasses, but it helps teachers identify errors in thinking or, or correct sloppy shortcuts that _don’t work all the time_. Bucky leans forward and murmurs, “Hey, that’s good. That’s- that’s pretty close, actually. Got a good imagination.”

“Well, you were gushing,” laughs Steve, flipping the paper over before Peter can get a peek at what’s so good.

“Just appreciating the view, that’s all. Man can look,” chuckles Bucky, nipping at Steve’s neck again. “So, whaddya think, about the Half-pint.” Peter shifts, feeling a little uncomfortable about eavesdropping, but they know he’s there. It’s not, it’s not rude if the other people know you’re there and don’t stop, right? 

He shifts for other reasons, too. Reasons that have to do with Bucky’s arm wrapped around Steve’s stomach, Bucky’s hat tipped back just a little as he nuzzles close.

He didn’t- he didn’t know they were, uh, a _thing_ , but he gets, now, why they have their own, like, private bunkhouse.

“I don’t know,” sighs Steve, his hand rising up to the back of Bucky’s neck, drawing him in, again. Peter should probably try to write in his journal, but he can’t. He has to concentrate on breathing, because that’s- that’s a lot. “Half of me says celebrate, but the little rascal- as soon as I took Peter away and he wasn’t showing off for an audience- what are we working on, what’s the end goal? Getting the work done, or, or something bigger?”

“Basic. Compliance,” growls Bucky. “Sit, come, stay, speak, don’t touch that, do what I tell you to do.”

“Well, I told him to keep working,” Steve says firmly.

“Well, then, that answers that,” Bucky growls.

“I guess it does,” sighs Steve. “I can’t wait until-”

“Yeah, unless Stark pushes for him to go to college and get the damn degree. It’ll be eight more years of this bullshit,” Bucky grunts, shaking his head. Steve’s hand scratches through his hair and Peter’s eyes almost cross. He’s, uh, there’s not a lot of gay men in his life, back home. Not, not ones like- and Ben used to make jokes, about a stiff breeze, but this is a hurricane, right in front of him, a casual hurricane and so he really, really needs them to stop, but even more than that? He needs them to keep ignoring him until he can get, uh, get himself under control. Where’s a page full of geometry problems when he needs it?

“If Tony wants him to have a degree to do the work he’s going to do anyway, I say we make Tony push him through it,” chuckles Steve, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Think you can wait until after lunch?”

Bucky drops another kiss on the back of Steve’s neck. “If I take care of it now, we can do lunch and then have Harley walk Peter down to Thor and Nat.”

“Oh, that’s smart,” chuckles Steve. 

“I have my moments,” laughs Bucky, dropping a few more kisses.

Peter is, uh, very uncomfortable. Please don’t let them turn around. Thank God the journal is big.

“Be back in, oh, half-hour,” says Bucky, his hands lingering as he pulls away in ways that make Peter scowl at the floor. “Add more rivulets, and make that pout just a little bigger,” he adds mysteriously. 

Peter wills himself not to blush as Bucky turns to walk past him, but he’s not sure it works.

“Hey, looks like you got _your_ work done, huh, kiddo?” asks Bucky pleasantly. He crouches down next to the beanbag chair, and Peter is going to spontaneously combust, he really is. He makes eye contact when it’s clear the other man is waiting for him.

Bucky’s eyes are fond and concerned when he asks, “You have a headache this morning? Made it kinda strong, didn’t realize what a punch I’d put in it until we got back to the house and I stretched out some.”

“N-no,” Peter tells him earnestly. “It was- I actually felt, kinda, good?”

“You sleep the whole morning? You were sawing logs still when I grabbed Harley’s foot and shook him up,” Bucky says, like he’s trying to have a conversation when Peter desperately needs him to be much less friendly, immediately.

“Until 10,” Peter tells him curtly, and then adds, “Steve saved me some waffles.”

“Good. Glad you liked ‘em,” says Bucky slowly, although, although Peter hadn’t _said_ he liked them. “So you don’t hate me, for making you strip down and go jump in a crick at 2 in the morning? Wasn’t quite sure, last night.”

Peter’s heart thumps. “No, no, I- I don’t hate you.” He looks up at Bucky through his lashes and shrugs. “It worked, like you said.”

“Well, I’ll remember that,” says Bucky, his grin flashing. “Although I ain’t having you out to do a midnight skinny dip every day between now and August.”

“December, we’re keeping him,” chuckles Steve. “Got Harley to do the whole first page in about ten minutes, Buck.”

“Noo,” drawls Bucky, smiling at Peter and then lifting a hand to scrub through Peter’s hair affectionately. Peter could actually die, right in that moment. “Well, then, I better go prepare to do battle with John, when he tries to retrieve you in August. He looked pretty feisty, from a distance, and all the Keener’s got hard heads and heavy hands.”

“A-august?” asks Peter faintly, shocked.

“He really did tell you absolutely nothing,” sighs Steve from the drawing table. “We can talk at lunch, Peter. Bucky, go- go get that done, so we can. After lunch.”

Peter glances over at him and there’s a faint pink tinge to Steve’s neck, where he bends over his work. Bucky winks at Peter and says, “You bet, doll,” standing up and strolling out of the room with his distinctive, rolling gait.

 _Did they just- um. They’re totally going to fuck after lunch. Right?_ Thinks Peter, grateful Steve’s back is turned to him.

He writes, _They’re totally going to fuck after lunch,_ in the journal, but he writes it in his and Ned’s secret mirror code, so that it’s safe. It takes him a long time to remember the symbol for f, but the rest of the code flows easily from his memory, and writing right to left has always felt as easy and natural as writing left to right.

It makes him miss Ned, though. _Fiercely_.

Ned would laugh and tease him for being thirsty, and give him shit about how many times he’d watched Brokeback Mountain, and- and-

Peter writes, very carefully, _I wish I were home._

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, and Peter startles, slapping the journal closed, because how did the man get so _close?_ His heart is hammering as he stares up at the man in fright.

“I wouldn’t look, Peter, that’s yours,” says Steve reprovingly. Then he crouches, the same way Bucky had, so that their heads are almost at the same height, and says, quietly, “Struggling a little, this morning?”

Peter wipes his face, the cheeks, thankfully, _dry_ for once. “Uh, every morning?” he hazards, trying to make a joke out of it.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Steve tells him slowly. “About what I’d expected, when Tony told me about everything you’ve had to do these past few months. John said you were taking care of your aunt, since your uncle died?” 

It’s an invitation to talk, and a kind one, but- but- “I tried,” admits Peter, a little resentfully. “I- I made meals and did the dishes, and- and took out the garbage, and I _tried_ , but, but I was too much for her to _handle_.” He bites his lip, because he hasn’t cried all morning and he doesn’t want to start now, but that last word had come out a little, uh, sobby.

“I bet the whole of life is too hard for her to handle, not just you, Peter. I lost my partner once, and I- I found that to be true,” says Steve slowly, and when Peter checks his expression, it’s thoughtful and sad, sincere. “The whole of life was too much. Not any one person in it, just- just the fact that I was still here, and my partner was _gone forever_.”

“Oh,” says Peter quietly.

“People tried to help me,” Steve continues. “But I couldn’t- I couldn’t feel their help, you know?”

“I- um.” Peter thinks of John, crawling into bed with him, driving him across the country, and his cheeks flame as he looks up at Steve and is caught by the kindness and acceptance he sees there. “Yeah, yeah, a little,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Well, you’ll have chores here, too, like last night. But you won’t have to do it all, Peter. Everyone helps, here. That’s how it works, like with Patches last night. You know what I think?” he asks, quietly.

“No, wh-what-” begins Peter, but he’s interrupted by the stomp of feet and Harley’s voice saying, “Okay, I was messing around, and I knew it, and I’m sorry, Steve. I just- I hate-”

Steve rolls his eyes, clearly exasperated by the interruption, and stands up, in time to catch an armful of Harley, hurling into his chest, arms wrapping around Steve’s bulk tightly. “I just hate having to go _slow_ for other people, when I can get the right _answer_ , Steve, in my own time,” he says, his voice strained with what sounds like tears, to Peter’s shock. _What kind of tongue-lashing did Bucky **give** the poor guy? _thinks Peter.

“I know it’s annoying, but when we tell you to do something,” growls Bucky from the doorway, “we expect it to get done. Stalls, tack, math problems, whatever.”

“Up to you if you want to keep doing yields,” Steve says, wrapping his arms around Harley and holding tight in a way that makes Peter’s heart ache and remember John, in the kitchen, and Uncle Ben, when Peter’d lost the science fair in seventh grade and missed his chance to go to D.C.. “We’re in it ‘til the end of the line, so we’ll do ‘em all day if that’s what you need.”

“I yield, I yield,” mumbles Harley into Steve’s chest, where his head is tucked. “I’ll do it. All of ‘em. Today.”

“‘S just hot air until we see action, Half-pint” Bucky says hotly from the doorway. He clicks his tongue and Harley pulls away from Steve reluctantly. 

“I’ll go, I’ll do it,” spits Harley. Bucky clicks his tongue again, and Harley steps away from Steve, swiping angrily at his face. “I’m _going_ ,” he spits.

“Yeah, come prove it,” Bucky growls. “Always putting on a show, Steve wants to see _reparations_ , Half-pint, not a drama scene.”

“I’m going!” says Harley hotly, shouldering past Bucky.

“You could wait to have him come say sorry until you’re all done with him,” Steve tells Bucky mildly.

“Wasn’t my idea to bring him along. I was just gonna ask if it was okay if I served something not steak for lunch,” grunts Bucky.

“Ah,” says Steve. He grins at Bucky. “And if I say, no, I need more steak?”

“Then you’re the one who’s not gonna be choosing who gets the meat after lunch,” chuckles Bucky. “Your choice, pal. You want me in a good mood or a bad one?”

“Chicken for lunch,” says Steve, as Peter realizes what _that means_ and tries not to choke, because then it’d be obvious he knows they’re gonna screw after lunch, and that’s weird, right? That’s weird.

Bucky chuckles and shakes his head, leaving as suddenly as he’d come.

Steve crouches again, and Peter feels his cheeks light up, for no reason. “Well,” says Steve slowly, and his hands reach out and lift the journal and pen from Peter’s lap. “They’re going to be hissing and spitting at each other until Harley’s on the last page or Bucky rings the bell, why don’t we go outside and I’ll show you around our little patch of heaven?”

“Y-yeah,” says Peter gratefully. Movement would be _excellent_.

Steve stows the journal on top of the bookshelf and gestures for Peter to proceed him out of the room. “Go get changed, find a pair of jeans, your drawers are stocked with ‘em,” says Steve as Peter starts to climb the ladder. “You’ll be riding this afternoon, and then doing some help in the main stable, so just a plain T’s probably best. You’ll probably get it dirty, and you might as well get used to using the company clothes for company business, and letting them get wrecked so _your_ clothes are still in good shape for your days off.”

“Okay,” says Peter easily. He strips off his pajamas and shoves them under his pillow, pulling clothes that match Steve’s directions out of the drawers as fast as he can.

“You’ll want a flannel shirt, still, I bet,” adds Steve. “I think I put a few up there.”

Flannel. _God_. Well. When in Rome…

Peter climbs down the ladder and Steve looks him over once, head to toe, and then nods, grinning. “Other than the city tan you got there,” he teases, “you look like you’ll blend in. Helps that you need a haircut,” he adds.

“Oh, uh, I know,” Peter says awkwardly. “I just- is there, like, a barber? Around here?”

Steve laughs. “Someone’ll hack it off for you, eventually, especially if you spend much time down by the main house.”

“Uh, okay,” says Peter, because that doesn’t sound appealing, really.

“Otherwise, we can put our names in for the going-to-town rotation, that happens weekly,” Steve says, his eyes sparkling at Peter’s clearly non-plussed expression, no doubt. “If you’re fussy and need a hairdresser.”

“I’m not _fussy_ ,” huffs Peter, stalking past him and over to the stairs. “I just, I have- the curls make it hard, I look like an idiot because if you don’t cut it right, they just-”

Steve laughs, “Okay, I’ll put us in rotation. I did notice the curl,” he says, as they hit the tile floor. He reaches out a hand and scrubs it through Peter’s hair. “It doesn’t look bad, I bet it can grow another couple of weeks yet, while we wait our turn. Harley can add us all in on the list when he takes you down after lunch.”

“I’m almost done with page two, already,” spits Harley from the kitchen counter, shifting around on his seat to glare at Steve. 

“Good,” says Bucky shortly. “Keep going, and maybe one of us’ll be impressed.” He clicks his tongue and Harley rolls his eyes, turning back abruptly to hunch over the papers again.

Steve tells Harley’s back, “I can’t wait to be impressed,” softly, and Peter marvels at how Harley twitches under that gentle encouragement, how his shoulders relax from their hunch and he leans forward, just a little. “C’mon, Peter,” he says next, steering them both past Harley and Bucky, glowering at the Instapot like it’s just insulted his mother. “Mudroom.”

Peter goes to where he remembers he put his boots and slips into them. They’re ridiculous, he thinks, but at least they’re not, like, bright red, like his costume boots from the cage fights.

Steve looks him up and down and then says, “You should tuck in your shirt, Peter, it’s a wilder world outside our door than I bet you’re used to, and the last thing you want is something crawling up underneath it.”

Peter stares at him for a heartbeat, envisioning scorpions and spiders and snakes, before his hands fly to tuck in his shirt. He looks up at Steve when he’s done, for approval, and finds Steve has taken a step closer. “Need to find you a belt,” murmurs Steve, his eyes on Peter’s waistband.

Ack. Oh, God. _A stiff breeze,_ thinks Peter helplessly. _Please don’t._

“C’mon,” says Steve after another heartbeat, and what was he doing, measuring how big the belt probably should be? Peter could have _died_ or _popped a stiffy_ , for fuck’s sake! “Let’s go take a tour.”

Steve shows him the propane tank and the generator in the little shed built along the back triangle of the house. He talks about the septic system and the do’s and don’t, and then points out that there’s an honest-to-God _outhouse_ on the other side of the horse’s paddock. Along the back of the horse’s shed is a storage shed for a mower. “We get our garden goods same as everyone else, from the home farm or the grocery store,” Steve tells him. “There’s a little dairy that does up butter and cheese and milk, too. With a hundred people on staff, it just makes sense to do it ourselves. It’s easy work so you probably won’t be in there, much, the lazy ones always fight over who gets to work the dairy.” 

He shows Peter the strawberry patch and says sternly, “Got some severe allergies down at the main house, so don’t I ever catch you carrying strawberries past our plot.” Peter nods, anxious to show that he’s absolutely willing to follow that rule. “Only have ‘em because Bucky loves ‘em and infected Harley with it,” sighs Steve, scowling a little at the patch. “The road ends here, but stay on the path and it’ll take you up to the sheep fields, in the rocky hills and stuff. Good for climbing, and the small creek runs through it. Bucky showed you the dam last night, and the swimming hole, so you know that’s this way-” Steve points to the thin path behind the strawberry patch that disappears over the hill.

“I didn’t remember,” says Peter faintly. “It was so dark.”

“Yeah, Bucky couldn’t sleep so he was up prowling and heard you,” says Steve, and then he barks a sudden laugh, shaking his head. “Apparently Harley was more than half asleep and clinging to you, patting you on the head, and while you both looked real cute, he couldn’t leave you like that.”

Peter flushes, and Steve says, “Nah, no need to feel strange. You’ll end up patting Harley on the head in the middle of the night, too. His dad was a piece of work, which you’ll find out eventually. So, you can follow the road back to the home farm and past it, see how it stretches-” he points and Peter squints into the distance, “-and that’s where the cattle ranch starts. They’re all out in spring pastures right now, and everybody else’s checking fences. Nothing but cows and grass for miles and miles, Peter. Horse herd moves around a lot, we mostly let ‘em roam, if you see ‘em waiting at a gate, just open the gate and let home farm know where they went. Not that you’ll be alone,” he adds, as if to himself. “Keep forgetting you’re just coming for the summer.”

“Yeah,” croaks Peter uncomfortably, squinting around. “There’s- how big _is_ this place?”

“Well, the hills turn into mountains, behind us, see that? And that’s our mountain. Tony’s got a ski chalet we all use at assigned times during the winter, to change it up a bit, break up the cabin fever. And then, we got a cattle crossing under the road, and we got miles and miles on that side, too. I’d tell you acreage, but you don’t know what an acre is, do ya, city slicker?” teases Steve.

“Nope,” admits Peter, squinting. The mountain looks so small, in the distance.

“So, I guess the easy answer is, it’s huge, Peter,” chuckles Steve. “Next-most neighbor is easily an hour away, maybe more. Have to helicopter if someone needs a hospital for more complicated stuff than what our doc can handle here, on-site.”

Peter’s shocked by that, somehow. Shocked by that more than by any other descriptor of the sheer size of the ranch, more shocked by the thought of needing a helicopter for a hospital than the thought of a man owning a mountain.

“We’ll do some longer camping trips later, help out some, once you’re comfortable on horseback,” Steve tells him seriously. “Give you some scope. But first we have to get you comfortable, until Thor says you can ride like that with us.”

“Oh,” says Peter, dumbfounded.

“Don’t worry, he’s a good teacher. So’re the rest of the stable staff,” says Steve easily. “I think that’s it- oh, the woodshed, here,” he says, pointing to the last of the outbuildings. It’s an open structure, with a roof, and the wood is piled in stacks and stacks, with four door-like openings down one of the sides that Peter can see. “We have a fire place, you remember seeing it in the sitting room? Shares a wall with the workout room? And a fire pit, in front of the house, see that? Although we probably won’t use the fireplace at all this summer,” Steve tells him. “Still, good to know where it is.”

Peter nods. _Sure._

“So, that’s home, the A House, the tower on the hill, Peter,” says Steve, with satisfaction. “Harley’ll show you down to the stables at the home farm after lunch, and that’ll be all you need to worry about for the next little bit.”

“Okay,” says Peter, suddenly feeling awkward again. _Home_ isn’t some triangle house on the prairie. Home is- home is Aunt May’s arms and Uncle Ben’s laughter, home is pizza and Ned and video games, home is his awards and his Captain America poster on the wall, with the picture he’d drawn when he was eight of himself beside him, black sharpie on the black poster so it only showed if you looked really hard, or knew where to look. Or had egged him on to draw it, he admits, thinking of Ned again.

Bucky steps out of the front door and rings the actual bell hanging there, and the tone echoes so loudly that Peter thinks people down the hill actually pause and look up at them.

“Lunch,” says Steve with satisfaction, putting his hands on Peter’s shoulders and pushing him towards the house. “C’mon, let’s go see if Harley’s impressed Bucky.”

~~~

They sit around the kitchen counter for lunch, and Harley’s chattering and pleased with himself when they come in. He rolls his eyes at Peter and tells Steve, “You have to be impressed with me, I did every single one.”

Steve and Bucky share a look and Steve says, “I am impressed. Thank you for getting bored with the leg yields and circle eights.”

Harley rolls his eyes and, when Bucky clicks his tongue, he adds, “I _am_ sorry, Steve, you know that, right? I know- I know I should just-”

“You’re fine, Half-pint,” sighs Steve, and then he gives the younger man a hug, kissing the top of his head. “I know you weren’t trying to piss me off or be disrespectful.”

“Even though you _were_ ,” grunts Bucky, with a black look at Harley.

Harley grins back at him, which surprises Peter. If someone looked at _him_ like that, he’d be terrified, he thinks. “You like wrestling me into obedience,” he teases Bucky. Peter’s libido helpfully supplies so many images that he has to move to the sink and grab a glass of water, to try to shake them off, as Bucky snorts and mutters, “If that was _wrestling_ , I think you’re doing it wrong, Half-pint.”

Yeah. Way too many images. Peter gulps the water frantically. God, what is wrong with him? These are _people_. This is not a _porno_. 

_Stiff breeze_ , laughs the memory of Uncle Ben and Peter _gets it_ , now. He hadn’t, at the time, when Ben and John had been joking after Peter’d been shocked and frightened by the sticky stuff in his pajamas one morning, thinking he had an infection or something. They’d made it sound like he’d be getting erections all the time, from their stories, but Peter hadn’t, he hadn’t had _any_ trouble living with puberty, but here?

Okay. Okay, he gets it now, ha ha, very funny, _a stiff breeze._ Could the universe _lay off him_ , a little? Just once? 

Bucky dishes out some kind of cheesy chicken casserole and everyone concentrates on eating and saying things like, “Pass the salt” and “s’good, Bucky” and “who the hell taught you table manners, Half-pint, wipe your damn mouth” and “Language!”

Peter even mutters language at Harley, elbowing the other guy and giving him a tentative smile. Harley’s return hoot makes his heart skip.

“Okay, you two horndogs go upstairs, I got Peter, and we got dishes,” declares Harley, taking the last bite and letting his fork fall with a clatter as he picks up his glass of water and starts chugging.

Steve sighs, but doesn’t argue the nickname, while Bucky picks up both of their plates and walks to the sink. “Sounds good, Half-pint,” he says casually. “Make sure you _introduce_ him, don’t just drop him and come running back up here for Tantrum.”

“Oh, I was gonna take Tantrum down with us,” says Harley, standing up and stretching.

“No, you’ll _walk_ down with Peter, and then come back and _get_ Tantrum,” Bucky tells him firmly. 

“Oh, all right,” sighs Harley. “But if I gotta come inside to grab something or pee or something, I don’t want to be scarred for life.”

“Grab everything you need before you leave,” says Bucky, at the same time that Steve says, “Pee down at the home farm.” They look at each other and burst into laughter, and Peter really needs to leave, like, now.

Steve and Bucky leave the kitchen and Harley mutters, “Horndogs,” again, under his breath, before turning on the water to fill the sink. “You wanna dry, or wash?” he asks Peter.

“Wash,” says Peter. He can’t remember a damn thing about which dish goes where, and he doesn’t want to have to think of anything except trying to breathe and ignore the fact that the porn cowboy and the poster cowboy are upstairs, _doing it._

“Works for me,” says Harley, whistling.

~~~

The walk is pleasant, Harley telling stories about this horse or that horse all of which he seems to be hoping Thor assigns to Peter. Peter doesn’t really care all that much, to be honest. But it is fun to listen to Harley’s enthusiasm and excitement.

“You’re what, five and half feet tall?” asks Harley, squinting. “Hm. Well. I mean, Karen’s the right height, and she’s sweet, perfect for a new rider. I’ll mention it.”

People start shouting _hi,_ and _hey, Harley_ at them, and Harley shouts back, sometimes adding, “It’s Peter, I toldja,” and pointing to Peter. Peter waves awkwardly, but he’s grateful when Harley opens the door on the huge red barn and they go inside.

“Thor?” calls Harley carefully. “Nat?”

“Here, Harley,” says a deep voice beside them, making them both jump and Harley yelp. “Is this Peter?”

“It is,” says Harley cheerfully, his face breaking into a huge smile. “Hey, so I was thinking, what about Karen?”

“Mm, you will let me do my job,” says the man, coming forward. Peter’s jaw drops a little, he can’t help it. The man is _huge_. And he thought _Bucky_ looked like a porn cowboy. This guy looks a like a porn _blacksmith_ , his muscles bulge so much.

“Sure, but think about it,” says Harley.

“Go away, now, Harley,” says Thor, with a smile. 

A horse paws at a stall door and they both say, “Settle down, Sabretooth.”

“He misses Logan,” Harley tells Thor, urgently, like it’s important. Thor smiles again, bright and pleased. “And he will continue to miss Logan until Logan misses him, as well,” Thor states, and somehow it sounds like a proclamation.

“Let me ride him this afternoon?”

“You will break your neck, trying,” Thor says, like he’s reminding Harley that the grass is green or water will quench his thirst.

This guy’s belt buckle is almost the size of a hubcap, but it fits proportionally, he’s just- what kind of horse could _he_ ride?

“I won’t, though, I was up on him just, just a month ago, regular,” says Harley.

“Logan does not care if you break your neck,” Thor tells him. “I do. Go away, Harley. I will bring Peter up to the Tower after we are done, here.”

Harley pats Peter on the shoulder and hisses, “Ask about Karen, okay?”

Peter shrugs and says, “Bye, Harley,” and tries to ignore the way his heart beats too quickly.

“Come, Peter,” intones Thor, with a smile. “Let us go into the dressage arena, and meet with Natasha.”

Peter trails behind him, feeling strange about being more reluctant to follow this man into another part of the barn than he was _jumping into a river_ for Bucky last night. ~~~

Natasha turns out to be a red-headed woman, small and slight and dangerously compact and powerful. She leads Peter to a small shaggy-haired black horse that looks like it has mange, and says, “Do you know how to get up on a horse, Peter?” with a doubtful tone in her voice.

“Uh, nope,” says Peter, shrugging his shoulders at both of them. “I know that horses eat hay and that they like to be curried, and that’s about it. Shield and Patches like peppermints,” he adds.

Her expression quickly turns pitying, and that’s pretty much where it stays for the next hour. Thor, however, is very easily excited by the smallest signs of competence or progress, and that’s nice. Very encouraging.

Finally, though, she clips the horse’s lunge line- he’s learned that, it’s called a lunge line, not a _really long rein_ \- to a pole that looks like the Tower’s patience pole.

“Karen?” she asks Thor.

“I do not like to give Harley the impression he is correct,” Thor says slowly, with a twinkle in his eye.

“But, Karen,” she says, narrowing her eyes at Peter in a way that makes him stand very still and hope that she gives points for willingness to learn and respect.

“Yes,” chuckles Thor.

~~~

Karen is the sweetest beast ever, Peter decides after just fifteen minutes with her. 

“She is a hand too small, I feel,” says Thor slowly. “But you will not work her hard. Do not let Harley push you, because you are a bigger rider for her, Peter. You must not strain her.”

“She’s sturdy, if she wasn’t Icelandic, I’d call her a pony,” Natasha tells him. “So I expect she’d be able to handle whatever adventures Harley would want to take you on, but still. You’re a beginner. Go easy on _your_ ass, too.”

Peter feels like muttering _language_ but she’s probably right.

“Saddle next,” murmurs Natasha. “Here, lead her,” she says, passing Peter the lead line slowly. “She’ll follow, she’s a good girl. Aren’t you, precious?” she coos, rubbing through the thick hair on Karen’s neck. Karen presses into her, obviously loving the attention.

Karen is the sweetest animal Peter has ever known, and John’s dog used to hold that place of honor.

~~~

They walk to a little leatherworking shed, which smells _amazing._ A short, intense man takes all kinds of measurements, some of which are _startlingly personal_ , and grabs a saddle, tossing it to Thor and muttering, “Harley’s old saddle, already fits Karen. Now get out. His plan changes, he wants to stick around, bring him back and tell me who he’s gonna ride.”

“Thank you, Logan,” says Thor. “Will I see you-”

“You tell Sabre I’ll be back when I’m not mad enough to strangle him for that stunt,” Logan growls. 

“I understand, friend Logan,” says Thor solemnly. “I will work him well, while he waits.”

“...thanks,” Logan mutters, turning back to his table full of sharp knives.

They’re exiting the small building, Peter taking what he hopes are surreptitious sniffs of the air one last time, when a man in actual slack dress pants and purple dress shirt bustles up to them. “Thor, is this Peter?”

“Why, yes it is, Doctor Banner,” says Thor, happily. “Do you need him, next?”

“I do,” says the doctor, looking hopeful.

“Bring him to the stable when you are done, I must take him home, I have promised it,” Thor tells the doctor, hefting the saddle like it’s an awkward bath towel, over one shoulder. Peter tries not to notice how his muscles bulge. “Go now, with the doctor, Peter Parker,” says Thor. “I will wait for you, and explain to Karen what is expected of her.”

Explain to a horse. Yeah. That. That’s weird.

Peter falls into step with the doctor, who says quietly, “Steve reported you’re enhanced? Gave him a good run for his money yesterday?”

Peter’s blood runs cold and he stops short. “Uh. I don’t want to-” he begins, heart hammering and already eyeing up escape routes to the main road. _No fucking way_ is anyone getting too close to his blood, his enhancements, the spider inside him.

“Standard physical. I won’t take samples,” the doctor reassures him. “I’m, uh, well, I’ve got some stuff in my blood I wouldn’t want getting out, either. Promise, Peter, it’s just standard stuff. Height, weight, blood pressure.”

There’s something haunted in the doctor’s eyes as he confesses to that _stuff_ in his blood and Peter nods, because it really does seem like the guy understands. And Peter can keep a close eye, he knows how to protect himself. They have no idea what he can do, he can _protect_ himself, if he needs to.

But it turns out to be a pretty standard exam, and the doctor is a, well, he’s nice, actually. Nice and calm, and chatty. He consults briefly with another doctor, Dr. Reyes, and they both declare Peter healthy and fit enough for work. “Any work assigned,” says Dr. Reyes, lifting an eyebrow at him. 

“Any and all,” agrees Dr. Banner. “No shirking around here, Tony doesn’t keep lazy people.”

“Except in the dairy,” Peter protests.

“Oooh, I would _not_ say that too loudly,” laughs Dr. Reyes, and she and Dr. Banner share a highly amused look. 

“What, maybe he likes fighting,” suggests Dr. Banner.

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t be a fair fight, would it, with his enhancements?” asks Dr. Banner. “Steve said Peter here gave him a run for his money.”

“Well, he can’t be that amazing, I saw Thor saddling up Karen outside,” laughs Dr. Reyes, her eyes twinkling at Peter.

“I don’t know anything about horses, Natasha was horrified,” Peter tells her with a smile.

“I bet she was,” chuckles Dr. Reyes. Peter likes her. She’s from the Bronx, which is pretty much Queens, and he’s spent enough time there that she’s as familiar as any of the kids in his homeroom class. “Well, come back when you break an arm or whatever, it’ll be good to hear that accent again.”

They release him at the door with instructions to walk directly to the stable, but Thor is, in fact, standing outside the small clinic, attached to the vet surgery center. 

“Peter!” he booms, clearly delighted.

Peter winces as heads turn, but trots over to him to prevent another greeting. “Hey, Thor,” he says quietly. “Hiya, Karen,” he says, with a lot more enthusiasm. Karen nuzzles into his shirt front, lipping- not biting, Peter’s learned- at Peter’s pocket flap.

“She has already learned your tricks!” laughs Thor, delighted.

Peter takes a peppermint out and feeds it to her, open palmed. “She likes me,” he tells Thor, cockily.

“As well she should,” agrees Thor. “Are you ready to attempt a walk up the hill to the Tower?”

Peter thinks about it, trying to remember everything Natasha tried to teach him about horsemanship an hour earlier. “Yes?” he hazards. 

“Come, here is a mounting block,” announces Thor cheerfully. “Show me how you find your seat.”

Karen is sweet, sweeter even than Thunder, the little black horse Peter had ridden for Natasha.

“You look well, on her,” says Thor. “Although she is a little small, yet, for you. When you have a better seat and are more confident, I will put you on an appaloosa, I think. Or a Tennessee walker.”

“Okay,” agrees Peter, as he clicks and shifts to let Karen know he wants her to move forward.

“Yes, you are easy-going, you need a mount that is also of a similar temperament,” says Thor, as they walk forward, back to the stables. 

“Here, I must get my hammer,” says Thor. He says, “Hold her steady, Peter.”

Karen is so calm and placid Peter kind of feels like an idiot being told to keep her steady, but he nods. 

“You the new kid up at the Tower?” asks a man walking by with a smile. 

“Yeah,” Peter says.

“Karen’s the best we got, you treat her right,” the man says, wandering closer.

“Okay,” agrees Peter, patting Karen’s neck. Karen doesn’t even shuffle her feet, she just stands placidly. He loves Karen already, he admits to himself.

“Name’s Clint-” says the man, holding up a hand. Peter shakes it. The man has biceps as big as Thor’s. “- I teach marksmanship. I’m on your dance card for later this week.”

“My-? Oh, yeah, okay, nice to meet you,” says Peter.

“Too many guns around not to get you basic safety right away,” Clint tells him easily. “How’d’ya like the Tower? Harley driving you nuts, yet?”

“I like it, I guess,” says Peter. On impulse, he says, “Hey, did- did Bucky every make you do Logan’s trick thing?” He’s pretty sure Clint was one of the names Bucky had dropped last night, anyway.

Clint doubles over laughing. “Oh, God, yeah. Fuck if it doesn’t work, huh? Hated it, still hate it, but fuck if it doesn’t work. Only it wasn’t Bucky, I got it from Logan himself, when I was, uh, struggling, after a- um, trip.”

“Ah,” says Peter.

“He give you tea or a hot toddy?” asks Clint shrewdly, like he’s sharing a joke with Peter, patting Karen’s neck and pulling something from a pocket to feed her.

“Um, whisky?” offers Peter. “Is- is that a hot toddy? Whisky in tea?”

“Sure is,” chuckles Clint. “Well, that tells me everything I need to know about _that_ ,” he adds with a sunny smile up at Peter. “Sam says they had carnitas, did you see any leftovers?”

“No,” says Peter honestly. “But I wasn’t looking, either.”

“Well, start looking, huh? Lots of real good opportunities, for a man who knows how to look,” says Clint, but he’s distracted, looking over Karen’s neck at the stable.

“Clinton Barton, you get your ass away from this building, right now,” scolds Natasha, storming from the building. “Go! Shoo!”

“Gotta jet,” Clint says to Peter cockily, pointing finger guns at him. “Keep your eyes out, opportunities, you hear me?”

“Y-yeah, Clint, see you later,” calls Peter, but the man is already running down the dirt lane, towards where Steve had said the cattle ranges began.

“Don’t feed him,” Natasha tells Peter, her lips pursed. “He’s the worst scavenger.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” says Peter, panic rising a little. 

“I am ready,” announces Thor, and Peter looks over his shoulder at the voice, craning his head up, and then up again. 

“Wow,” breathes Peter.

“Percheron,” says Natasha crisply. “Draft horse. Name of Hammer. Stubborn as fuck and won’t go for anyone but Thor, the asshole.”

The horse is mottled gray, a beautiful sight, and as tall as a house. It moves like liquid, though, and each one of it’s hooves is as big as the platter Bucky’d served carnitas on the night before.

“Come, let us walk you home,” says Thor genially. 

Natasha waves them on, and Peter brings Karen carefully around beside the huge horse, well aware that it looks like he’s riding a _dog_ beside Hammer and Thor’s combined bulk. And not even, like, a Great Dane. Still, Karen seems really comfortable, and nobody laughs, so Peter relaxes, too, and enjoys the feeling of being outside, on a _horse_ , riding around.

Thor corrects Peter’s seat in a comfortable, off-hand way a few times, and suggests a different grip for his reins, and then talks lovingly of Icelandic horses and how they remind him of the ponies at home. Peter pats Karen a few times as Thor talks, because he loves her already, he really does. She’s such a good horse, and it’s crazy that he’s _riding_ a _horse_ at all, but if he had to ride one? He’s glad it’s her. She’s so sweet.

When he gets home, Steve steps out from the house and calls, “Hey, I’ll get Shield, huh? Go for a little ride?”

“Excellent idea!” booms Thor genially. Neither horse even flinches at the noise, Peter notices. 

Karen is the _best_.

They wait, Peter and Thor, for Steve to get everything ready in the shed. He comes out and mounts up in one smooth motion, making Peter remember that while he said Bucky’s the better rider, that doesn’t mean he’s a _poor_ rider.

Thor and Steve talk about people Peter doesn’t know, as he rides in between them, several heads lower than either one of them, feeling a little ridiculous until they get off the road and start across the open field towards the land Steve had said was for sheep. Steve corrects his posture once, with a quick reminder, and it’s easy and nice to be there, between them, all of his attention on where his body needs to be in relation to Karen, what he needs to do to keep Karen on track with them. He doesn’t even really pay attention to the landscape, until he realizes they’ve been riding beside a long fence for some time. “This’s the first fence, home fence,” Steve points out, when he realizes Peter’s watching. “That’s why the red fence posts. We’ll have to paint ‘em soon, and then you’ll really hear Harley moan, he hates home fence week more than he hates essays.”

“He has a lot of opinions, for one so new to life and all it offers,” chuckles Thor. “He is filled with fire and curiosity.”

“He sure is,” laughs Steve. 

Peter likes the way they talk about Harley, it makes him feel warm, somehow. And the way they include him, like of course he’s seen what makes Harley special and appreciates it, too. They sound _proud_ of Harley, and suddenly there are tears in his eyes, because, well. They sound like John and Ben, talking about Peter and Peter’s latest explosion in his basement lab, joking about burning the house down or building murder bots or that time he busted the washing machine before he fixed it again.

“Better out than in,” mutters Steve, and Peter nods, wiping his stupid leaking eyes with the back of his hand. 

“I’m not scared of my tears,” he tells the man, defensively rolling his eyes. “I’m just tired of leaking them all the time, there’s just so much _snot_. And then my head hurts.”

Thor says, quieter than anything Peter has heard him yet say, “Grief is a heavy burden, my young friend.”

Yeah.

Yeah, it is.

They ride together, some more, in that direction, before they come to a junction of fences and turn left, and begin to walk down the hill, down the hill and through the already ankle-high grasses slowly, on their way back to the road. 

They ride, and Karen is so good underneath him, and the two men and their horses bracket him from the world on either side, silent walls of understanding, and it’s- it’s much better than the swimming hole at midnight, for helping his head to clear just a little.

~~~

That night, he dreams of riding Karen through the streets of New York, looking for something urgently. He looks and he looks, and he looks, getting more and more frantic, but it’s not until Harley mutters, “Shh, Peter, just, wake up,” that he realizes he’s mumbling something out loud.

Harley pulls him closer, pats his shoulder and says, “Go back to sleep, Peter. Go- just, I got you. Go back to sleep.”

Peter’s not really awake, and so that sounds good, and so he sleeps.

~~~

He falls into a pattern so quickly, so easily. He wakes up, usually well after everyone else is up and gone. Steve’s in the house, and so they do chores and hang out in his studio for the first part of the morning. By mid-week, he’s about a quarter of the way through the journal already, with all the things he has to write about. It’s not all about Ben, either. Some of it’s about May, now, and Ned, and, and there are a lot of small lines and paragraphs written in a code only he can read, because man, this place is _breezy as fuck._

Harley’s usually wrapped around him at some point in the night, and once Steve comes up and takes him down to the studio, lets him sip tea- _strong_ tea- and talk and talk about trying to be a good man and making money without saying anything about, y’know, the cage fights. Steve just lets him talk, doesn’t ask any particulars, but he makes a strange face every time Peter says, “And I know, like, Captain America wouldn’t- he wouldn’t- he’d find another way, okay? But I don’t- Ben said I was gonna turn out just like my parents but, so what, Steve? I can’t be good, not like, uh, Captain America or, or even good like his friend Bucky Barnes, remember him? I can’t be that kind of good. But nobody can. They were _heroes_ , I’m just- I’m just a guy.”

“Well,” says Steve once. “I bet they were just guys, too. I bet- I bet they did a bunch of stuff that nobody ever knew about, that wasn’t the greatest decision, either. It sounds like you were trying to help, and that’s all I ever expect out of myself and my friends. Just- just that you try to help.”

“Yeah,” sighs Peter, weighted down by the echoes of the nightmare, still. But he can see the strange look on Steve’s face and he wonders if Steve’s one of those people who got named for Steve Rogers, who hates being compared to the guy. Probably. Peter only ever once got compared to the guy, and he hates it, still, how it sets him up for an impossible job, to be that good. He thinks about Steve and Bucky, how they’ve known each other from childhood, obviously, and how maybe their parents were big Captain America fans, and thought it was cute to give little brown-haired Jimmy the nickname Bucky because Steve was blonde. It’s the kind of things grown-ups are always doing, he thinks with disgust. And never thinking about how it can affect the kid. He has _six_ So-and-so “Bucky” Such-and Such’s in his high school yearbook, him and Ned counted last year. It’s just _wrong_ , thinks Peter.

Look at Harley, named for Harley Quinn, who’s literally the Joker’s _abuse victim_. That’s probably half of why he’s so hot tempered, thinks Peter. Peter would be, too, if he’d been named so stupidly.

If Peter ever has kids, he’s naming them something without a legacy, he decides, in Steve’s studio, sipping strong tea and avoiding looking at Steve, whose t-shirt is far too tight and whose pants are far too loose, dipping down just a big too low on his hips and pooling over his feet.

Well. First he’s gotta stop popping boners over his _counselors_.

It’s hard, though, because they’re very hot, and very, uh, handsy. They ruffle his hair and touch his shoulder. He watches Harley hang off of them and hug them and even, one memorable moment, slide down onto Steve’s lap and pick up his pencils to help Steve draw something. That’s probably all innocent, Harley’s been with them since he was a little guy, but when they do it with Peter, he wonders if he should tell them to stop. 

It’s probably not okay to _like_ someone touching you, if they don’t, uh, _like_ it, too, he acknowledges, as the week goes on. 

He calls May on Sunday, which is nice. She sounds, well, okay, not great. She sounds like shit, and like she feels guilty, and so it’s a weird conversation, because he’s kind of okay with that. But he also kind of worries that she’s overwhelmed and she needs him and he’s way out here, drooling over cowboys and snuggling with his horse and eating like a king at Bucky’s table. He’s glad she doesn’t sound great, but he also wants her to sound great, and so he tells her a lot about Karen and not much else.

Harley takes him down every afternoon for more riding lessons, which honestly make him ache and give him sore muscles, but he loves the time they spend walking the horses down the long lane, talking the whole way. Harley reminds him of his friends in the robotics club, smart and funny, and while he doesn’t have the depth of the geek knowledge that say, Ned has, he’s got a sly and wicked sense of humor that more than makes up for it. And he notices things, all the time. He’s so smart, about the horses and about the people around them, always pointing out body language and what that means about who’s sleeping with who, probably. 

Stuff Peter would miss, if it was just him.

There’s other older teens running around, and they all shout at Harley, who shouts back, but everyone seems busy, all the time.

On Monday, Harley turns to one of the teens and says, “Be right there, Johnny,” and then turns back to Peter and says, “You good to take Karen in by yourself, today?”

“Sure,” says Peter.

“Sweet. Forget you saw me leave with Johnny?” asks Harley.

“Who?” asks Peter, innocently.

“I could kiss you, thanks,” says Harley, riding away, kicking Tantrum up to a fast trot.

Peter takes Karen into the arena, which is strangely empty. But Thor said that could happen, and just to clip her to a hitch and come find him. Peter dismounts easily, now, and pats Karen, and wanders down to the stables.

There’s a man in jeans and a jean shirt, with a tan hat, outside of Sabretooth’s stall, and Peter’s heart leaps into his throat as he opens the gate and Sabretooth lashes at the air beside the man.

“Oh, uh, are you new? You shouldn’t- that’s Logan’s horse-” he calls. Thor says to give the horse a wide berth, because he _bites_.

The man gives him a disbelieving look out of dark, disgusted eyes, and pulls Sabretooth’s head down with strong arms, muttering something. Sabretooth paws the ground, an act that makes Peter nervous and his eyes dart around because, um, Thor should know- he should go find Thor. Sabretooth eventually stands still, though, and the man pats him, roughly, on the neck, still muttering. Sabretooth knocks his head into the man’s stomach, and the man huffs air, before literally flowing up the horse’s side in a quick, smooth motion, onto the blanket there. Peter’s jaw drops.

“I’m not new,” he says to Peter in a condescending tone of voice, walking Sabretooth past Peter, “but I think, I think you’ve just proven that _you_ are _very_ new, and I think that’s probably something you should be ashamed of, New Guy.” Peter’s jaw snaps shut and his cheeks burn at the barb, but the man ignores him to say, loudly, “Hey, Thor, I’ll have him back when he’s done being a dumbfuck and he’s listening again,” and then he aims Sabretooth at the stable and just- _rides_ for it.

Peter’s never seen anything like it, the way the man and the horse move together, like one animal, leaping for the entrance and the road and the wide open fields beyond.

“Who was that?” he asks Thor faintly, when Thor comes over and closes Sabretooth’s gate.

“That was Tony Stark,” says Thor, his voice quiet. 

Peter turns to look at him, swallowing, because of course it was. He’s going to be kicked out before he even got _settled_. 

“He is a good boss,” continues Thor. “But sometimes, sometimes he too, bites a little. If you get too close.”

Peter nods, feeling that same sinking, shocked feeling of self-doubt and disgust that he’d felt when he’d seen Ben’s disappointed face in the crowd at the cage fight.

“I will talk with him, when he returns,” says Thor decisively. “That was not well-done. He feels the spur of his other commitments, I believe, Peter Parker, commitments that he would rather not have, that keep him from the Ranch and-”

“No, it’s okay,” says Peter hastily. _God, don’t tell him he hurt my feelings_. “I’m- I get it. Can we just, uh, go ride?”

“Yes,” agrees Thor happily. “I have looked forward to it all morning, our ride. You are an _excellent_ student, and you make me- Natasha agrees- feel like a very good teacher.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” says Peter vaguely, staring out the door at the figure on the hill, pounding up the hill past the Tower, already, the blue jean of his clothes melding against the yellow and brown coloration of the horse beneath him, hat already fallen to hang off of his back.

“Let us ride,” intones Thor.

“Yeah,” says Peter, turning away from the image, squaring his shoulders and his jaw. “Yeah, let’s ride.”

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE GO GIVE SOME LOVE FOR THAT MOODBOARD: https://starker-rays.tumblr.com/post/626538789328781312/cowboy-tony-and-his-ranch-hand-peter-in-new-mexico OR CLICK ON IT IN THE FIRST STORY
> 
> Anyway, so, we're just gonna have fun with the cowboys. I know people apparently hate WIPs, but we're just here, having fun, with cowboys. Try not to stress any major story arcs which may or may not develop. Cowboys. Smut. Spankings. ENJOY THIS.


End file.
